A Drawing and A Risk
by TheOceanBreathesSalty
Summary: Alex's POV. Oneshot. T for safety. Jalex, with Harper and Max thrown in there too. Alex's in college and Harper challenges her to find the perfect man.


(a l e x russo _P O V_)

And it was yet another date with another boy that you barely knew and definitely didn't like.

His name was something boring like Carl or Bob and really, you couldn't be bothered to remember which one. He's got plain brown eyes and plain brown hair and a plain, ordinary face. He's wearing a shirt that's slightly too big and pants that are slightly too small and glasses that don't fit his face.

He's studying law at school and working to get his masters degree and thinks that going to art exhibits is a waste of time.

He's so far from your type, you aren't even sure you can accurately state just how much you dislike him.

You're only here because Harper begged and she's your best friend and, well, you probably owe her for some of the shit that you put her through during all your schemes in high school.

This is the fourth date that she's made you go on though.

And he might actually be the best of the bunch.

When you finally tune back into the monologue that Carl/Bob has been keeping up for the past fifteen minutes, you don't like what you hear. "I'll tell you," he blusters, "not only is art a waste of time and resources, but also no _respectable_ person would ever even attempt to paint. Especially those losers that hang out underground and paint on the walls. Grungy, hippy, _freaks_." Bob/Carl spits the last word and you grimace, standing without a word and walking away from the table.

The Alex you were in high school might have hit him across his judgmental face or used some spell that you didn't know anything about on the off chance that it would embarrass or harm him in some way.

Now though, you had learned a tad bit more finesse and instead of doing something brash, you simply talked to the waitress before you left.

Apparently, Bob/Carl was a better man than people gave him credit for. He was doing something really nice for the people in the restaurant tonight.

He was buying them dinner.

Every _single_ person there was getting a free meal, courtesy of Carl/Bob.

You walk out of the restaurant with a slight grin on your face, still angry and bored but feeling that warm thrum of **vindication** slide through your veins balanced it out.

You walk down the street back to your dorm room, the entire way trying to think of a way to get Harper to _stop sending you on dates with horrible boys_.

By the time you've reached the door to your room, you still haven't come up with anything and have decided that plans are overrated. Besides, you were always better at winging it anyways.

"Harper Finkel!" you shout out as soon as the front door slams shut behind you. Technically, Harper isn't supposed to be in your dorm. However, the first girl that the NYU Undergraduate Administrators tried to make you live with believed in witches, like the kind that you sacrifice innocent kittens for. So you scared her off within three days and Harper's been kinda, sorta, pretty much living with you since then.

"Alex! Have fun on the date?" she's smiling broadly at you, her eyes full of hope that she finally found you a man that wasn't, well, a werewolf.

"No," you murmur, the urge to shout having already drained away at the sight of her innocent face. "And not that I want to sound ungrateful or anything, but, uhm, stop throwing boys at me?" you wince as you say it because it's definitely a lot blunter than you meant it to be, but you assume that it'll get the point across and that's kind of all that matters.

"You didn't like this one _either_?" she moans in exasperation, one hand reaching up to fuss with the strawberry hat perched precariously on her head.

"They're all boring and not my type and really, Harper? _A lawyer_?" you spit out the last word the same way Max spits out healthy food and Harper's eyes get dangerously narrow.

"What is _wrong_ with lawyers, Alex? They are perfectly respectable. Unlike the boys you dated in high school. I mean real_ly_ Alex; you're in college now. Must you keep dating the bad boys?" she's looking at you in that way that only Harper can, an odd mix of amusement, fondness, frustration, and outrage.

"Maybe, maybe not. But it's my decision, Harper! And I don't need you to find me someone to date! I can do it myself!" your voice is getting louder and louder, but you still aren't shouting, not yet.

"Well then, why haven't you?" she asks while propping one hand on her hip, "are you waiting for something? Another bad boy? Another _werewolf_?"

"No, Harper. I'm just waiting for someone worth dating. And I'll know him when I see him." Your voice lowers again, your arms crossed calmly in front of you. You know that your chin is jutting slightly out and your lips are pressed too firmly together, it's what mom and Justin refer to as your **stubborn look** with horror in their eyes.

"Oh _will you_?" her other hand moves to rest on her hip and her voice gets higher in her skepticism. "And how exactly will you 'know' Alex? Huh?"

"I just… will." You assert, not sure how exactly, but it's definitely something that you should be able to tell, right? If there's some dude out there **meant for you** then, obviously, you'll have to be able to recognize him.

Harper doesn't look convinced and your theory is supported when she hisses, "_prove it_" to you and goes back to the room she's not supposed to live in.

"I will!" you nearly shout at the closed door before going to your own room and glaring at the wall after flopping down on the bed.

You begin to brainstorm, deciding that there must be some way to know what the perfect man will look like, who he will be. You figure that most other girls would be making lists of desirable and undesirable traits, one side declaring **pros** with a large plus sign and the other reading **con** with a triangle drawn next to it.

But you aren't most girls.

And at that thought, inspiration hits you like lightening. You can _draw him_. You reach under your pillow and grab the sketchbook stashed there. You sit up with one hand already reaching for the colored and shaded pencils you keep on the desk by the bed. You grab a soft lead pencil and turn on some music, Katy Perry's voice filling your head immediately.

You place the pencil to paper and try and decide what to draw. You decide to just draw features one at a time, that way you can keep focus on one feature such as the mouth or nose without worrying about the others.

You sketch the general shape of a skull first, making the jaw a little broader and the making sure that the chin isn't very pointed. Ears are next, not too big and close to his head. It's easy enough to draw a nose that's slim at the top and large at the bottom and lips that are more thin than full stretched into a smug smirk.

You get stuck on the eyes though. Do you want sparkling grey or shimmering green? Mischievous or serious? Full of laughter or full of maturity? Eventually you decide on grey green eyes that are more solemn than impish but still have a gleam of wickedness in the corners.

Dark eyebrows are sketched in graceful arches above the eyes, one raised slightly higher than the other. Above that you immediately start shading in black hair, slightly mussed and in his face but not long enough to get in his eyes.

You lean back in thought, trying to think if there was anything else. After finally deciding that you remember everything, you reopen your eyes to look at what you drew.

A gasp escapes your lips followed by an **ohmygod ohmygosh ohmygoodness** and you drop the sketchbook on the floor before kicking it under you bed as if that will help you forget what you just saw.

You looked at the paper and saw a smug smirk and mature grey eyes that glint with green humor. Black hair that was just messy enough and one eyebrow arched in unmistakable challenge.

You just drew the face of the person you thought to be the perfect man.

You just drew _Justin's _face.

You slide down further in the bed and pull the covers up over your head in an attempt to shelter yourself from the world.

* * *

In the morning, you ask Harper if she knows anyone else that you might be interested in.

* * *

Things really aren't that different. Harper keeps sending you on dates with boys you don't like and you stop talking to Justin and Max and your father. You only answer ever other one of your mother's phone calls because otherwise, she would hunt you down and make you explain.

The avoidance tactic works.

Except for not really.

Because now, you really can't stop thinking about Justin. It was like that evil sketchpad put all these thoughts in your head and all of a sudden your wondering what it would be like to run your fingers through Justin's hair or smother that annoyingly smug smirk with your own lips or make his eyes completely green with lust.

But you can't do those things because Justin has a girlfriend.

_Wait._

You can't do those things because Justin is your _brother_.

That's why these thoughts are bad.

Or at least that's what you tell yourself.

The winter semester passes quickly and you go with Harper to visit her parents in wherever they were instead of going home. You think she's beginning to suspect something's wrong with you, but you don't really care because she won't pry. On Christmas morning, there's a bright flash at the foot of your bed and you know that it's presents from home.

You give them to a homeless person you and Harper pass on the way back to campus, still wrapped.

* * *

After the break from classes and school, you were feeling better, slightly saner. But then you got back to the dorm and that damn sketchbook was underneath your bed still, it's mere presence tainting your room.

You don't want it there but you want to move it and see Justin's face all over again even less, so it stays there throughout spring semester too.

You're still dating guys named Bob/Carl and wondering what you're going to do for summer vacation when a bright flash of magic signals the entrance of Max into your room.

He doesn't say anything, just glares at you with this horribly serious look in his eyes.

"Mom's crying. Dad's making sandwiches with peanut butter and anchovies on them. Justin's getting a _B average_. So. How about you tell me _what the fuck is going on_?" he practically snarls at you, still so much more serious than Max should ever be.

You smirk and lie and shrug your way through excuses. Talk about how hard classes are and all the boys that you've been dating and how Harper really just wanted you to come with her to see her parents and how the Finkel's dog tore up the presents you were going to send before you could get them to the family.

The serious look in his eyes doesn't fade.

He walks over to the bed, grasps your shoulders in his hands, and _seriously_ when did he get this big? He's all tall and manly now and you missed it because you haven't spoken to anyone in the family for almost a year, discounting the three word long conversations you had with your mom first semester.

He's still just gazing at you as if he wants to wring all your secrets out of you like water from a rag.

"_Alex_."

And you break.

You start babbling about how you can't do this and how it's wrong and how no one can know and how you really, really hate that redheaded slut Justin's _still_ dating.

Max blinks at you, the seriousness fading slightly to be replaced by confusion.

You just grimace at him, reaching under the bed to grab the sketchpad that started your self-imposed isolation. You know that when he looks at it, he'll be able to know because your feelings are in every line of that drawing, no matter how unaware you were of them at the time.

He slumps down on the bed next to you as soon as he sees it, his knees wobbly and hands shaky.

"Alex," he whispers again, his voice so sad.

You're so relieved at the lack of disgust that you start crying, tears slipping silently down your face and dropping onto the bedspread your hands are fisted in.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, murmurs something about **understanding** and then disappears from the room the same way that he came, the sketchbook tucked safely under your bed once more.

You close your eyes and lay down, wondering for the first time if this is really as bad as it seems.

If it's a for sure thing that you can't have Justin.

If your family and Harper will hate you.

If it's _wrong_.

* * *

You finish all your finals and pack your room up and you still haven't made a decision. If you go back to the substation, one way or another, Justin will know by the time school resumes. He'll either figure it out, or you'll tell him, but he'll definitely know.

But will he return your feelings?

Or will he hate you for them?

You shake your head at the thought and grab you stuff, already shrunk into a backpack, and begin the long walk to the substation.

You're Alex _fucking_ Russo and you can do whatever you want.

Too bad it took you a year to figure that out.

* * *

Harper's already situated in the basement when you get home. Max smiles when he sees you, a grin that lights up his face and reassures you that you will always have him, at least. Your mother cries and moans over how skinny you are and calls you **mija** in that warm voice that you've missed too much. Dad tells you that you worried him and that he missed you and that you can make it up to him by working extra shifts this summer.

You drop your stuff in your room, half enjoying the way nothing's changed and half hating how everything's the same.

Justin gets home the day after you do and after an inquiry about where you've been, he goes upstairs to call his girlfriend/redheaded slut. You grimace and then smile at Max when he shakes his head at you.

You need a plan.

* * *

Three weeks later, and you've remembered you hate plans.

You've already waited a _year_ because you were being stupid and listening to what **society said** as opposed to what **your heart said**.

And that was more than enough time to waste.

You pace in your room until three in the morning, fear of rejection running through you like liquid energy and making it impossible to sit down. That sketch of Justin that made you see what might've always been there was lying on your desk and every time you turned to walk the same path you had been walking since eleven, you saw his face and remembered why you were risking, well, _everything_.

You leave your room and go to Justin's your hand hovering uncertainly to knock before you just open the door and walk right in. he's lying on his bed reading some thousand page book by light from his wand. You grin when you see him and don't even bother trying to smother it when he looks up.

"Alex? What're you doing here?" he asks, concern turning his eyes deeper grey. You still want to see them green.

You laugh slightly, your hands twisting in front of you, and wonder how in the world to explain this. You open your mouth to say _something_, something about the dates with Carl/Bob or sketches of perfect men that looked like him but that isn't what comes out of your mouth.

"Are you still dating that girl?" slips from your lips without permission and you cringe inwardly.

"No, actually. We had a difference of opinions and went out separate ways." His eyes are still that dark, serious grey and you're beginning to really dislike it.

You smirk at him and laugh again. "Difference of opinions? Really Justin? Who talks like that?" You question as you stride over to his bed and lay down next to him the same way you used to when you were little and scared of the monsters under your bed.

The same memories must have hit them because his arm curls around your shoulders and you feel like your four all over again.

Then his grip tightens and you remember the picture and things aren't all that much like they were when you were four.

"So… remember when I didn't speak to the family for a year?" you ask, cringing once again at the bluntness that seems to appear at the most inappropriate of times. His arm tightens even more and you feel more than hear a **yes** rumble out of his chest.

You twist in the half circle of his arm so that your chest presses against his and your eyes are on the same level as his. They're lighter grey with confusion and you know he's waiting for you to explain but you just can't find the words.

So instead, you do what you do best.

You leap head first into the situation with barely any thought at all.

You kiss him.

You kiss your brother, the man of your dreams, your Justin at four am on a summer night in New York City, the sounds of people and taxis echoing in the background. You can practically feel his shock but you don't move back, because he's yours and he always has been and you know that sometimes, if you just give him some time to stop thinking and start feeling, he makes the decision that he really wants to.

And in this case, you actually aren't sure if the decision that he really wants to make is pulling you closer or pushing you away.

You're really hoping for the former.

And _finally_ you feel the most tentative press of his lips against yours and triumph flows through you like a tidal wave. He presses even harder and flips you over onto the mattress, his body lying over yours. The weight against your chest is comfortable and warm and it's _Justin_ and you're really, really freaking happy.

You just can't believe that it took you a year to do this.

His hand slips up the cami that you sleep in and you smile against his lips. He pulls back to gasp for air and when you blink languid eyes open to meet his sparkling green ones.

Your grin widens.

Most definitely worth the risk.

* * *

Yeah.

Disclaimed.

Hope you liked it. Please review. Thanks for reading.


End file.
